


No Language Left to Say It

by placentalmammal



Series: No Reason to Return Again [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blow Jobs, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6529270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Blind Betrayal, the Sole Survivor takes Danse to Goodneighbor and introduces him to Mayor Hancock. Their encounter is consensual, but fueled by alcohol and grief. Mentions of past Maxson/Danse; spoilers for Blind Betrayal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Language Left to Say It

Danse had heard rumors about the Third Rail. It was a hole, a pit, an outflow pipe for the worst of the Commonwealth. Its clientele was the scum of the earth, the absolute dregs of humanity. Ghouls and synths and humans too degraded to care _what_ sort of company they kept.

He was almost disappointed to find it well-lit and relatively clean, no worse than the Muddy Rudder. There were the usual assortment of dealers and drunks and chemfiends, the fog of cigarette smoke heavy in the air, and spilled liquor sticky underfoot. But there was also live music--a four-piece brass ensemble and a singer in a shimmering red dress. Knight Murphy navigated the milling crowd with ease, an overfull glass in each hand. She used her hips to nudge the drunks out of her way, winding through the crush of bodies towards the corner booth to take the seat opposite Danse.

“Relax,” she muttered, barely audible over the babble of voices and music. “Quit looking over your shoulder. Goodneighbor’s neutral territory.” She settled back into her seat, sipping from her glass and watching the crowd like she was waiting for someone. Her eyes flicked from the door to Danse to the untouched cup on the table in front of him. “Drink,” she said bossily, pushing the glass towards him with an impatient gesture. The scrape of the cup against the wood table was inaudible over the crush of voices.

Danse moved like an automaton, raising the glass to his lips, mindful of a chip in the rim. He drank and immediately spat the liquor back into the cup, gagging. “What is this?”

“Rum,” she said. “It’s better than their other offerings, trust me--”

All around them, there was a shift in the bar’s energy. Heads turned, and people got to their feet, pressing closer to the door. Danse craned his neck to follow the crowd’s gaze. A ghoul, scarecrow-thin and maybe five feet four inches, entered to a chorus of drunken whoops and scattered applause. Dressed in a red frock coat and tricornered hat, he lifted his hand in lazy salute, ruined lips peeled back in an obscene mockery of a grin. The crowd went wild, pressing closer to him until a massive, red-haired woman emerged from the shadows to hold them back. Her coat fell open to reveal an enormous .44 magnum on her hip.

“That’s enough,” she said, her voice rising over the crowd’s chatter like oil on water. “Give the man some room.”

The ghoul tugged on her collar, hauling her down to his level to whisper in her ear. She sighed and stood down, falling into place at his elbow, and the ghoul stepped down into the crowd, arms spread wide. He moved through them like a prophet, favoring a few supplicants with smiles or handshakes, his bodyguard towering over him. Danse watched Murphy watch the ghoul, her grey eyes tracking his red coat as he made his away across the smoky room.

He stopped at their table and Danse recoiled reflexively, the vinyl creaking under his thighs as he inched backwards in his seat, his lip curled in disgust.

“Rosie Murphy, as I live and breathe,” boomed the ghoul, his hoarse voice carrying over roar of the crowd. Heads turned, and Knight Murphy bore their scrutiny with cool indifference.

 _Not Knight_ , Danse reminded himself, swallowing the bitter liquor. _Not any more_.

“I didn’t realize you were in town,” the ghoul continued. He extended his hand, Murphy shook it, and he did not let go. He ran his ruined thumb across her knuckles, his expression gentle. “How’ve you been, sister?”

“Just fine.” She tugged her hand out of his grasp and dropped it between her thighs, out of reach. “And you?”

“Never better.” His smile took on a brittle quality, like cracked plaster. “Who’s your friend?” He nodded at Danse without deigning to look at him, his absurd hat sliding back on his head. “Is this _him_?”

There was something there, an overemphasis on the pronoun, but Danse couldn’t parse his meaning. He scowled up at the ghoul, his hands clenching into fists on the sticky tabletop.

Murphy laughed. “No.”

“Ah.” His face was a mask. “Well, I’d love to meet the man you’re spending so much time with.”

“You and everybody else.” She sat back in her seat. “are you going to join us?”

“Well, if you insist.” He waved the bodyguard away; she sighed and picked her way through the crowd, towards the bar. He dropped down beside Murphy, sprawling across the bench and landing halfway in her lap. The ghoul smiled again, presumptuous and overeasy. “What’s your name then, stud?”

Danse ground his teeth.

“Danse,” interrupted Murphy. “Hancock, this is Danse. Danse, Mayor Hancock.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Hancock drawled. He did not extend his hand to Danse, and instead slung his arm possessively across the back of the booth. “So how’d you two meet?”

“I intercepted a distress signal,” she said, running her finger around the rim of her glass. “But that’s ancient history. Come on, how’ve things been here? Did you ever hear back from Finn’s sister-in-law?”

Brightening, the ghoul launched into a story, talking animatedly and stealing sips from Murphy’s glass. He was frankly flirtatious; she was transparently disinterested. But she didn’t push him away or slap his wandering hands, even when he crawled into her lap. Murphy looped an arm around his waist and idly stroked his back while her eyes drifted out over the bar, back towards the door. Still waiting.

Grinding his teeth, Danse drank and watched as Hancock brushed Murphy’s curling hair back off her face. He touched her like a lover, all familiar reverence. As an initiate, she had brushed off Cade’s medical examination, responded with hostility to his question about her sexual history.

_Have you ever had sexual relations with any species considered non-human?_

Danse’s stomach churned. He stared across the table, skin crawling, watching the ghoul’s hands. Had Murphy been intimate with the ghoul? It was unthinkable, but in the past week, he’d come to the bitter realization that he didn’t know her half as well as he thought he did. Maxson had sent her after him; she had defected without a second thought. No hesitation, no reluctance. The order had come down, she’d said “no,” and she’d walked away, as if it were that simple.

And maybe for her, it was.

Danse set his glass down harder than he’d meant to, sloshing rum onto the tabletop. He moved his glass away from the puddle of spilt liquor. “How do you two know each other?” he said, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. “You never said.”

“She solved a problem for me,” said Hancock. “In an off-the-books sense.”

“Mercenary work?” Danse turned his glare on Murphy; she rolled her eyes.

“It’s what I _do_ , Danse.” Another sip of rum, a reflexive grimace. “Why do you think I made contact with your people in the first place?”

Something in Danse’s chest shifted and caved in on itself, like a building collapsing into rubble. He had respected her, once. “I thought you cared, _Knight_ ” he spat, his hands clenched into fists. “About the people of the Commonwealth. About the Codex. About--”

“Wait, wait, hold up.” Hancock frowned. “ _Knight?_ Codex? Rosie, who _is_ this guy?”

She sighed. “Ex-paladin Danse, formerly of the Brotherhood of Steel.”

“Brotherhood? Rosie, what the fuck.” He leaned away from her, his mottled brow furrowed. “I thought you were with--” He swallowed, glanced sidelong at Danse, who rankled. “I thought you had other connections.”

“I do,” she said irritably. “Nothing’s changed. It was an _assignment_ , Hancock, one I fucked up. Badly.”

“No shit,” he said. “How did--”

“I would appreciate it,” Danse interrupted, “If you didn’t discuss me as if I weren’t here.”

Murphy sighed. “I came here to have a good time,” she said. “I’m already halfway drunk. Can we _please_ discuss this some other time?”

“When?” said Danse hotly, his head swimming. He leaned forward in his seat, clutching at the sticky table for support. “When were we going to have this conversation? Since there’s apparently a lot else you’re not telling me. When were you going to tell me you were a _mercenary_?” He jabbed a finger at Hancock. “When were you going to tell me you were sleeping with a _ghoul_?”

Hancock froze; Murphy’s irritation turned to confusion, then laughter. “Oh my god, _Danse._ ” She set her glass down, slopping liquor onto the tabletop, then mopped it up with her sleeve. “I’m not fucking Hancock.”

“You’ve got him on your lap,” he accused. “You’ve been sitting there, letting him _touch_ you--” he shuddered and Murphy rolled her eyes.

“I don’t have to justify myself to you,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “You aren’t my commanding officer anymore.”

Her words were a slap across the face. Danse swallowed his anger and dropped his gaze, his knuckles white on the edge of the table. “Murphy, I--”

“Hey,” interrupted Hancock. “Hey now. You’re both pretty steamed up.” He squirmed in her lap, frowning. “Rosie, go outside and cool down.”

“Can’t, I’m waiting for--”

“She’ll see you sooner if you go outside to wait,” said Hancock firmly. “Go.” His tone brokered no argument. Murphy pushed him off her lap and _went_ , muttering under her breath as she stalked across the crowded bar. She flung the door open, letting in a rush of cold November air. It slammed shut behind her, and she was gone.

Hancock sighed, leaning back in his seat. “You alright, man?”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“Look, God only knows I love the woman, but our girl Rosie is a nasty drunk.” The ghoul spoke matter-of-factly, as if relaying a weather forecast. “Hell, even sober, she can be kind of a bitch. She’s hard on _everybody_ , and I get the impression you’ve had a hard day.” He waved his hand. “Hard week, month, whatever. Point is, whatever the hell your damage is, she shouldn’t be taking hers out on you.” He drank from Murphy’s abandoned mug and grimaced. “Fuck, she _really_ didn’t water this down at all.”

Danse swallowed. “So what are you saying?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. You’re a friend of Rosie’s, so you’re a friend of mine. Don’t let her get to you. Hey!” He waved at the robotic bartender. “Charlie! Bring us a couple beers.”

“Get them yourself,” replied the robot sourly, but he brought over two bottles of Gwinnett stout. 

After the rum’s heat, the beer was sweet and cool on Danse’s tongue. He drank gratefully, avoiding Hancock’s eyes. Knight Murphy-- _not Knight_ , he reminded himself--was a closed book, always had been. But the ghoul was, if anything, _worse_ for his openness.

In his own strange way, Hancock was as charismatic, as _magnetic_ as Maxson. In every other way, the young Elder’s opposite. Lax rather than disciplined, lean rather than bulky, ghoul rather than human. He was kinder than the Elder, gentler, but he had issued an order to Murphy and she had _listened_. The woman was utterly intractable; not even _Maxson_ could make her do something that she didn’t want to. And the people--such as they were--of Goodneighbor worshipped Hancock in the same way that the scribes and knights worshipped their Elder.

In the same way that Danse had worshipped his Elder.

He shifted in his seat. The label on the bottle in his hands flaked and peeled underneath his scrabbling fingers. “Whatever you’re offering,” said Danse guardedly, “I’m not interested. I have my own friends--”

“Rosie doesn’t count,” said Hancock, blunt as a brick. “Can you honestly say you’ve got any friends outside of her and your Brotherhood cronies?”

“Don’t patronize me, _ghoul_.” Danse stumbled over his words; it hadn’t taken long for the the rum to work its way through his system. He washed the bitterness out of his mouth with another swallow of beer and set the empty bottle back on the table.

“I’m trying to be nice, you tool,” snapped Hancock. “I’m not prying, and I ain’t trying to be in your business. I just want to know: what’s your plan, Crewcut? Sounds like you don’t got a home to go back to. And Rosie’s got, ah, other commitments. She’s not going to keep letting you follow her around, even if you wanted to.”

Danse scowled at him. “My plans are none of your concern.”

The ghoul rolled his eyes. “And you can’t stay here, neither, not with that attitude. Someone’s going to gut ya, and I can’t say I’d blame ‘em.” He tapped his bottle against the table. “Has Rosie introduced you to Preston Garvey?”

“Who?”

“Garvey heads up the Minutemen.” Hancock took a sip of beer, pulled a face. “Or shit, maybe Rosie’s technically in charge? I dunno. But Garvey’s good people, he’ll take you in, attitude and all.”

“The Minutemen are disorganized rabble--”

“Jesus Christ,” said Hancock. “So organize them. The way Rosie tells it, Garvey’s champing at the bit for someone else to be in charge, and she hasn’t got the temperament for leadership. March on down to the Castle tomorrow morning, and Garvey’ll make you colonel by noon.”

Danse pushed back from the table, leaning back into the cracked vinyl booth. He’d drunk a third of the rum and all of the beer; his face was hot and itchy. “I still don’t know why you care.”

“You’re a friend,” Hancock said simply. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward in his seat. “Friend of a friend, at any rate. And Goodneighbor takes care of its own.”

Danse frowned, disliking the idea of belonging to Goodneighbor. He had lost his rank and his humanity, not his mind. He still considered himself above the general rabble, above the drifters and dead-end drunks that filled the bars and slept in the trash-lined gutters. Friend or not, human or not, there were _standards_ \--

He swallowed. “I appreciate the gesture,” he said thickly. The words were bitter as chicory, but they were true. There were few truths left in his once-stable world; he clung to those that remained to him like a drowning man clutching at straws.

“Don’t mention it,” said Hancock. “I’m going to go find Rosie, and try to talk some sense into her.” He slid to the edge of the booth, and moved to stand. Unthinking, Danse reached out for him, one hand closing around the ghoul’s bony wrist.

“Wait.”

The texture of Hancock’s skin was not unpleasant. It was unexpectedly familiar: stiff and cracked like old leather, warm underneath Danse’s fingertips.

“Wait.” he repeated, and there was an edge of childish desperation in his voice. _Don’t leave me._ He swallowed. “Please stay.”

Hancock’s expression was unreadable. Danse ran his thumb gently across the ghoul’s scarred flesh, clumsily trying to convey his loneliness without giving voice to his desperation.

The ghoul’s expression softened, somehow. “Is that a come-on, Crewcut?”

“I--” Danse swallowed. “Maybe?”

A laugh, low and rasping, spilled from Hancock’s throat like tobacco smoke. “You’re a mess,” he said gently. “A real goddamn mess.”

“Yes,” Danse agreed, breathless, his cheeks burning.

“If you’re serious about this,” said Hancock, still in that same gentle voice, “We ain’t having this discussion here. Why don’t we relocate to the back room and see where the evening takes us.” He tugged his hand free of Danse’s. “Would you like that?”

Danse hesitated. For a moment, he was overcome with vertigo, as though he were standing at a cliff’s edge. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, yes.”

Hancock led him through the room and the crowd parted easily before them. Danse caught knowing smiles or jealous glares on some of the faces in the crowd; his hands shook with nervous excitement. He was not innocent or inexperienced--his romantic history was peppered with hook-ups and one night stands--but he was in uncharted waters. Hancock was a _ghoul_ , was _inhuman_ , was about to fuck him in the back room of a seedy bar. Two weeks ago, it would have been unthinkable.

(Two weeks ago, he had done something similar with Maxson. Kneeling in the Elder’s chambers, thighs cramping, neck and jaw aching, Maxson’s ungentle hands tangled in his hair. Danse’s hands clenched into fists, resting on his thighs, not allowed to touch the Elder or himself. The head of Maxson’s cock pressing firmly into the back of his throat, the salt of his skin and his seed heavy on Danse’s tongue. The Elder fucking his mouth, _using_ him, Danse’s face burning in eager, desperate shame, a whine rising up from low in his throat.)

He blinked to rid himself of the image and followed close behind Hancock, already halfway hard.

The back room was dirtier than the bar: musty, overstuffed couches reeking of stale sex and Jet fumes, bordello sconces set at intervals on the wall to cast grimy red light on the shabby furniture. Hancock tugged him towards one of the sofas, collapsing and pulling Danse down on top of him. The sofa creaked under their combined weight and Danse fell eagerly into Hancock’s lap, straddling his hips, resting his hands on the ghoul’s bony shoulders. Hancock hesitated for a moment, and Danse initiated a kiss: no lips, just teeth and tongue, all fire and no heat. Gnarled hands settled on Danse’s hips and he rocked forward, bracing himself against the wall as he licked into Hancock’s mouth.

“Hang on,” said Hancock, his voice a low growl. “Time out.”

Danse groaned and pushed against him more insistently, pawing at Hancock’s collar and biting at his lips in a futile attempt to recapture his mouth.

“Hold up. I want to make sure you’re really okay,” said Hancock. “I don’t want this to be something you regret in the morning, dig?”

“What do you want from me?” Danse snapped, thumb digging into the ghoul’s exposed collarbone.

Hancock shifted underneath him, and Danse could feel the ghoul’s erect cock pressing against his meaty thigh. He ground down against it and Hancock bit back a moan. “Want to hear you say it,” he rasped. “In your own words. Don’t want to feel like I’m forcing you.”

“I want your cock,” Danse whispered. He was warm, _so_ warm, and the collar and crotch of his shirt and trousers were suddenly too tight. He swallowed, leaning forward to put more of his weight on the ghoul, pinning him down with his bulk. “I want you to use me.”

“Yeah? I’d rather just fuck you,” said Hancock. “I never much liked giving orders.”

“ _Please_ ,” said Danse, desperation creeping back into his voice. “Tell me what to do.”

Hancock sighed, tilting his head back to kiss Danse’s throat, his lips like sandpaper on his flushed skin. “What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me to suck your cock,” said Danse, rutting against Hancock’s thigh, his hands fisting in his red coat. “I can be good for you, I promise.”

“On your knees,” said Hancock hoarsely. “Close the door and get on your knees.”

Danse slid out of his lap, grateful. “No,” he whispered, his hands going to Hancock’s belt.

“No what?” Hancock pushed him away. “I’m serious, if you don’t want--”

“Don’t want to close the door.” Every word was a battle, prized out from his back teeth and pushed through stuttering lips. Sex was _easier_ with Maxson, who issued commands and did not ask permission. “I want them to see me.”

Hancock sighed, leaning back. “Is that how it is?” he said, working his fingers through Danse’s hair. “You want everyone to know how much you love ghoul cock?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Danse, breathless. He unbuttoned Hancock’s pants and freed his dick from his greying underwear. He groaned at the sight of it and wrapped his hand around the shaft, running his thumb across the head to collect a dribble of pre-come. No foreskin, and Danse found himself wondering whether Hancock was circumcised or if it had just fallen off, like his nose and ears. A revolting thought, but it made his cock twitch, straining painfully against his fly.

Hancock’s dick was the same strange, leathery texture as the skin on the inside of his wrist. Danse wrapped his lips around the head, flicking his tongue over the slit. The ghoul moaned, hands tightening in Danse’s hair. “Harder,” he said, low and hoarse. “It’s not particularly sensitive any more.” He chuckled. “Won’t hurt me,” he said, stroking Danse’s scalp. “Go ahead.”

Danse took Hancock deeper into his mouth, sliding his tongue along the shaft and sucking until his cheeks hollowed. He closed his eyes and bobbed his head, taking Hancock deeper with each pass until his nose was pressed flat against the ghoul’s pubic bone. He smelled different than a human would: clean and dry, no vinegar tang of sweat. There was a prickle of something metallic and distinctly non-human. Danse imagined it was lingering radiation, sliding down his throat with each thrust.

He moaned, shifting the angle of his head to allow Hancock easier access. He opened his eyes again and looked up at the ghoul through his lashes, his mouth slack around Hancock’s dick in an unspoken invitation.

“God you’re good,” Hancock said, curling forward, his lips brushing the top of Danse’s head. “So good.” One hand slid down from Danse’s scalp to cradle his jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin underneath Danse’s eye. “So pretty like that. So good.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Fuck. You got the prettiest eyelashes. They’re wasted on you, you know.” He chuckled and sat back on the couch, his head thrown back, his mouth open in a moan.

Danse pressed forward against him, sucking in earnest, urging Hancock to fuck his throat. The ghoul’s touch remained gentle, kneading his scalp and stroking his cheek while he thrust shallowly into Danse’s mouth, a lazy grin on his ruined lips. Danse was achingly hard, saliva gathering in the corners of his mouth and dribbling down onto his chin. _Use me_ , he thought desperately. _Fuck my mouth, call me a slut, choke me with your cock_.

Hancock laughed, low and ragged in his throat, running both hands through Danse’s hair. “Look at you,” he whispered. “So pretty. Such a good, sweet cocksucker. Do you like this?”

Danse nodded, jaw aching, face burning. Hancock’s gentleness, his tender regard, was more difficult to bear than his anger or scorn would have been. Danse closed his eyes again, bobbing his head, willing the ghoul to read his mind and _use_ him.

“Good, good,” Hancock crooned. “I’m so lucky to see you like this. Anyone would be. Fuck, is that why you wanted the door open? So people could see how beautiful you are, how good?”

He nodded again, whimpering around Hancock’s dick and working his tongue along the underside of his shaft, tasting pre-come and clean, dry skin. He screwed his eyes shut and wrapped his hands around Hancock’s thighs for support, leaning forward to swallow him down to the root. Loving and hating the ghoul’s adulation, he moaned again, heat rising in his cheeks and pooling in his belly.

Hancock came as gently as he’d done everything else; spilling weakly in Danse’s mouth and tugging at his hair. He moaned, hips snapping forward against Danse’s mouth. Danse swallowed eagerly and slid off Hancock’s dick with a wet _pop_ , come and saliva dribbling down his chin. “How was I?” he asked, squeezing Hancock’s calves, the taste of his semen thick on Danse’s tongue.

“Perfect.” Hancock traced his cheekbones with calloused thumbs and slid his fingers across Danse’s lips to catch the dribbles of spit and ejaculate before they dripped onto Danse’s shirt. He bent almost double and kissed him tenderly, all heat and no fire. Danse melted against his mouth, reaching up to clutch at the ghoul’s shirt, feeling like the women on the covers of old-world romance novels. He had dismissed such literature as garbage, but kneeling on the hard floor with his world in disarray and Hancock’s seed drying on his lips, he thought he could understand the appeal.

“Hey,” said Hancock, breaking the kiss. “Come on up here, let me take care of you.” He caught Danse’s hand in one of his own and tugged him up onto the sofa. Danse’s knees creaked and popped painfully, but Hancock shushed him with gentle kisses, his tongue flicking into Danse’s mouth. “Lay back,” he said. “Just lay back, I’ll take care of you.”

He maneuvered Danse onto his back and undid his buttons, sliding his gnarled hands over his muscular chest in frank appreciation. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he said, peeling Danse’s shirt and undershirt back. “Fuck.”

Danse pulled him down for another kiss, whimpering against his mouth when Hancock’s hands slipped into his pants. Fumbling in his eagerness, Danse undid his belt buckle and lifted his hips so Hancock could slide his trousers down, freeing his cock and relieving a little of the pressure in his groin. He groaned when the ghoul’s hand closed around his dick, rough and unlubricated and _exactly_ what he needed.

Hancock grinned down at him. “How’s that?”

“Good,” said Danse, swallowing thickly.

“Just good?” Hancock began to move his hand, flicking his wrist on the upstroke, and Danse keened, thrusting up into the contact. “‘Cause I think I’m blowing your mind, boy.”

“God,” said Danse, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sagging cushions. “God!”

“How long’s it been since someone’s treated you gentle?” Hancock murmured, lips brushing Danse’s throat. “It’s fucking criminal, is what it is.”

With a gasp and a sudden convulsive gesture, Danse reached for Hancock, wrapping his arms around the ghoul’s waist to clutch at him. His hands slipped under the hem of his shirt and coat, and he raked his nail down the ghoul’s back. Danse cried out again and Hancock stifled him with his mouth, kissing him urgently as Danse bucked up into his hand, cock twitching in Hancock’s grasp as he came.

He whimpered a name, Hancock’s or the Elder’s, he wasn’t certain. Danse lay still for a moment, clutching desperately at the ghoul, ejaculate dripping down onto his belly. Hancock resumed stroking his face, strange and tender. It was too much all at once, and Danse pushed him away. He lurched upright, tugging his clothes into order, his face hot.

“Hey,” said Hancock. “You alright? You good with what just happened?” He took no steps to put himself back into order: didn’t do up his trousers or belt buckle, didn’t replace the hat on his bald head. Danse looked away, shivering. His breathing felt strangely constricted, as though massive steel hands had wrapped around his chest to crush the air from his lungs.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, acutely miserable. “I-- this is difficult for me.”

“You’ve had a tough week.” Hancock’s hand settled on the back of his head, stroking his hair. “Everything changes all at once. I know the feeling.”

“I’m a synth,” Danse whispered; only the second time he’d said so out loud. “I’m no more human than you.” He laughed bitterly. “You were human once, I never was. I’m like--I’m like a _mirelurk_ or a _deathclaw._ ”

Hancock’s hand stilled, Danse turned to look at him. He’d frozen, eyes wide. “No shit?”

“Why would I lie about something like that?” Danse said. “I’m--I’m not even a person. I’m a thing. M7-97.”

“Shit,” Hancock breathed. “Is that why you left the Brotherhood?”

“That’s why they _exiled_ me,” said Danse. He straightened his back, squaring his shoulders and shrugging Hancock’s hand away. “They wanted to kill me, but--”

“But Rosie saved you,” Hancock finished, his mouth set in a grim line. “Yeah, she does that.”

“She shouldn’t have bothered,” said Danse, shaking his head furiously. “It’s a waste of her potential. _I’m_ a waste.” He breathed out through his nose. “An abomination.”

“Look,” said Hancock, his hand falling heavily onto Danse’s shoulder. “I’m not a philosopher or a psychologist or whatever, but if somebody you care about decides that you should die because of what you are, you tell them to shove it up their ass.”

“You don’t understand,” said Danse, his voice raw. “I’m a _synth._ A _machine_. And machines don’t feel, don’t get to choose. We’re just programs and hardware.”

“Yeah, and I’m just blood cells and nerve endings,” said Hancock. “It doesn’t matter what a person’s made of, it matters what they _do_ and who they _are_. You’re a person if I say you are.”

“I’m not--”

“You _are_ ,” said Hancock, more insistently. “I think you’re a person. Rosie thinks you’re a person. She saved you. When she told Maxson to get fucked, she risked her ass, and a whole lot of other people’s asses. For you. Because she cares about you. Because you’re a person.” He squeezed Danse’s shoulder and let his hand fall away.

“Just _stop,_ ” said Danse. “I don’t--I can’t have this conversation now, or ever. Not with you, not with anyone.” He closed his eyes again and his head fell into his hands. “I shouldn’t be alive right now. All I ever wanted was to serve the Brotherhood, and now I don’t even have that. I thought I was human, and I’m not.” Throat raw, eyes pricking with furious tears, he turned on Hancock. “Now what?”

The ghoul bared his teeth in an uneasy smile. “You live,” he said, as if it were that simple.

And maybe for him, it was.

**Author's Note:**

>  _All that I've been taught_  
>  _And every word I've got_  
>  _Is foreign to me_ ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Wy15IvvQxQ))


End file.
